Vignettes From Black
by sunnybutt
Summary: A continuing series of vignettes and bite-size comedic scenarios, about those mages, wizards and planeswalkers who explore the absurd and terrible mysteries of Black Mana.
1. A Tower in Dominara

Dominara is a ruin. Where proud cities or ancient natural wonders once stood, there is ash. The plane itself is threadbare, reality coming apart at the seams: raw mana crackles and spits – and disappears, forever. No devils live there. No phyrexians invade; they don't have a reason to. The desolation is almost absolute.

Almost.

In a crooked stone tower, swaying slightly in the mindless wind, there burns one candle over one book, with one man scribbling furiously in it. He is a spindly old creature, made of skin and sinews and, it seems, far too many bones. The quill he uses is taller than he is, a massive iridescent peacock feather, and when he needs more ink, he stabs his left forearm with it. He doesn't flinch; he doesn't seem to notice. By now that forearm is a mess of hamburger. He had been developing a spell to summon Yawgmoth, the God of Phyrexia and Bane of Dominara, from his dark slumber below Urborg, and bind him into a construct that would be bound to serve. It is a devious and horrible spell, what there is of it, but right now this wizard is doing something else. He is a wizard, indeed, and not a very nice wizard, at that: fortunately for the multiverse, he's also fairly absent-minded.

"' _They lie who call this love_ ,' yes, I think that's an excellent bit, ' _for even love is not so blind as thee!'_ Oh yes, that's marvelous, got the romantic tension just right, but now it needs something, something... a swordfight! Yes! _And at that moment, in came brave Cyran a-swinging on his chandelier_..."

As soon as he finishes his epic romance, he'll get back to the Destroying of Worlds. Probably.


	2. A Wizard in Grixis

In another plane, and a rather more populous one, another wizard is on similar business. The plane is called Grixis. This wizard is standing on a high cliff on the side of a mountain, looking out over a black expanse. Innumerable myrmidons swarm back and forth, into great foundries and mills that belch dark smoke. One dominates the landscape: a baroque affair, with sharp ridges and spines on the walls, turrets that reach up like claws, and great leering faces thrust from the sides, with orange lava dribbling from their mouths. It is capped with tall smokestacks. Little people march in several entrances, in orderly queues, and come out the top smokestack in small red lumps, sprayed across the landscape. Close examination of the black expanse reveals it to be made entirely of bone and rot. Grixis is Hell, and a handful of the Demons have put it on industrial lines.

Beside the wizard sat a demon. He was twelve feet tall and enormously fat, with tiny wings and little curly horns tacked on as afterthoughts. He wore a very modern pinstriped business suit, tailored to try and minimize his rolls and give him an imposing physique. It functioned, anyway - that is to say, it imposed his minimized his physique. "Well, Master McCracken, what do you think of our fine facility so far?" asked the demon, pride sparkling in his voice. "We are only using the most modern and efficient torturing technologies, using up-to-the-minute time dilation techniques to fit an eternity of torment into a matter of moments, quickly converting the subjects into useful necrotic material faster than we ever have before!"

"Well," said the wizard, "That's very interesting, but I've always been a bit of a traditionalist." _That_ much was obvious, at least. With his ragged black robe, gnarled and tortured staff, and hood that hid his features, this Wizard McCracken looked as traditional as it got. "The personal touch, you see, is always worthwhile."

"Well of course, of course," said the demon. "This is our first tier of torment, naturally. The efficiency created here allows us to give higher-grade sinners a great deal more personal attention. Come, we can eavesdrop on a Damnation Orientation interview."

There was a cramped little office, with stark white walls and metal chairs. At an uncomfortable little table, sitting in one of the uncomfortable little chairs, was an uncomfortable little man in clerical vestments. There was a little tray of doughnuts on the table, which the little man had gently pushed as far away as possible. Wizard McCracken and the Pinstripe Demon watched from behind a one-way mirror.

The door to the little room creaked open. In came a demon, bent double, horns gouging the ceiling panels, wings folded tight against his back but still hanging awkwardly. He was muscular, with pectorals like anvils, and a dizzying array of nipple rings. He had a manila folder in one massive hand, careful not to accidently shred it with his five-inch claws. He sat down in the chair opposite the cleric, with a sound of metal screeching in protest and his knees near his armpits. He put the folder on the table and gingerly opened it between thumb and forefinger.

"Mr. Volgaren, isn't it?" the demon asked politely with a voice like a dead Russian sub rolling around in the Marianas Trench.

Mr. Volgaren, for it was indeed he, tried to melt into the back wall. He nodded, eyes wide with terror.

"I am Urg-Gregnorath, Swallower of Innocence, and I have been assigned to be your personal Purgatorial Counselor."

"We call retribution Purgatorial Counseling now," whispered the Pinstripe Demon, "because it allows people to believe that one day they will leave our care. It reduces regrettable incidents like the very sad Orpheus episode, d'you see."

Urg-Gregnorath, Swallower of Innocence, gingerly turned a page of his little dossier. "Before we get down to business, we like to ask you a few questions in order to get to know each other better. And, of course, if you have any for me, please feel free to ask them."

"Why am I _here?!_ " wailed Mr. Volgaren. "I gave to the Church! I was a _good person!_ "

"Well," said Urg-Gregnorath, Swallower of Innocence, "That's a very interesting fact you bring up." He ran a claw down the page, scoring it very lightly, until he found the detail he was looking for. "It says here that you gave some monies, indeed," and now his voice had a hint of satisfaction in it, "but that _you didn't have a joyful heart while giving it_."

Mr. Volagaren stared.

Urg-Gregnorath, Swallower of Innocence, continued on somewhat smugly. "The joyful heart is everything, Mr. Volgaren. You have to be grateful for the privilege of giving – you thought you were buying salvation, and were more interested in getting than giving, even if your 'good,' sort to speak, was an intangible one." He shot out an improbably long tongue and snatched a doughnut from the plate. He smacked it a moment before continuing, while Mr. Volgaren quietly blubbered to himself. "Now, about your relationship with Miss Mina Harcourt, which is what you most felt you needed slavation, I mean _salvation_ , bit of a Freudian slip there I'm afraid, sorry, Ahem. Salvation from in the first place. I believe you and she first met in..."

"We're going to recount each of his sins to him in a more or less random order," whispered the Pinstripe Demon, "and this is the real beginning of the entire torment process. It is a fine line, keeping or patients in a state of both despair and righteous indignation, and Urgy is one of the best. Just watch."

"I think I've seen enough," Wizard McCracken whispered back.

"So, Master McCracken," said the Pinstripe Demon when they had returned to his office, "may I inquire about the purpose of your visit?" The demon's voice bubbled with salesmanship. "Perhaps I could convince you to try our Early Access Program, reserved for black mana users? You spend half of your eternity in Hell, and then not only do you have the first half over with, but we grant you the tools to bring even more souls with you for your second trip! Does that sound attractive?"

"No," said Wizard McCracken, "in fact it does not."

The office was as opulent as a midlevel demon could afford: a desk and furnishings made with The Nightmares of Small Children, even a nice arcanotechnological terminal designed to monitor Those With Impure Thoughts, and a standard Blood of the User Faustian Contract Printer. Lacking, however, were the Unicorn-horn paneling, Angelbone portrait frames, and the ever coveted Fountain of Virgins that marked a demon who had really Made It.

"Well," said the Pinstripe Demon, "You come to us with the greatest of recommendations, so I'm instructed to do whatever I can for you."

This came as a bit of a surprise to Wizard McCracken. "Recommendations? From who?"

"None other than the mighty Griselbrand himself, actually. He sent us a letter explaining how you double-crossed him, trapping him in the Helvault for many years. He called you a 'treacherous, tricksy, two-timing son of a whore and a coward,' but as we like to say around here," said the Pinstripe Demon, noting McCracken's mounting air of disbelief, "flattery gets one nowhere."

Wizard McCracken took a moment to steady himself. Never knew where you were with Demons; they kept things interesting. "Well, I appreciate his... his words."

"So! What shall it be?"

"Well, first I have a question for you." This was the moment of truth, what Wizard McCracken had been working toward for months. "Are you a demon of the Bloodgift tribe?"

The Pinstripe shifted uncomfortably. He was, in fact, he had his ceremonial Goblet of Knowledge in his desk drawer, although in his case it was more of a Mug of Trivia. "Yes, I am."

The Wizard grinned and lifted his head. The dim ambient light just barely lit his features. He had prominent cheeks, made for grinning, gold-rimmed glasses, and a sparking golden goatee. "Then you are Grub-Gorgorabth, the Bloodgift Demon who is fond of pinstripe suits and is a Grixis Greeter. And you will do a lot for me. A _lot._ "


	3. A Demon in Ravnica

And, then, in yet another plane, there is a third dark wizard, on likewise similar business.

These are all related, I promise. Just bear with me a second.

In a vast cloaca beneath the infinite city of Ravnica, there is a ritual circle inscribed in runes of fire on the slimy stone floor. The room is all arches and mysterious green light glowing just around the corner, with black water dripping into rivers of urban effluent. This is deep, deep below even the populous undercity. This wizard is, like his compatriots, dressed in black, but unlike the first two, who wore black because that's what dark wizards wear, he wore black with style. His robe had fringes, it billowed. It even had a red velvet lining, something of a luxury in a profession that maintained so close a relationship with its practitioners.

He stood at the edge of the circle, humming an old battle hymn. John Brown's body must be rolling in his grave...and when the moment was right, he began a dark conjuration:

"O Reaper of the Abyss, I summon thee!"

"O Might of the Underhell, I command thee!"

"O Maelstrom! O Horn! I task thee, and I shall have ye!"

"Come as I call! Grbblebotchim! Grbblebotchim! Grbblebotchim!"

The stone splintered everywhere. It melted and ran away in little red dribbles. The inside of the summoning circle melted, and the whole sewer began to cave inward. The wizard shuffled backward to higher ground. The circle developed teeth, and a noxious fume boiled out. It was that smell you get when someone has had a cold for three days, and you have to get close to their mouth for whatever reason. The stench heralded the arrival of Heralds, who were like inside-out cherubs with blackbone horns that they blew with their butts. They tooted an abyssal equivalent of "Hail to the Chief." Finally, Grbblebotchim The Underlord hauled himself from the pit. He was the largest demon we have seen so far, and that's saying a lot. He had eight arms, each with an impressive collection of pectorals, and seven horns, and teeth that weren't satisfied with filling a mouth so they ran down his cheeks, his neck, and onto his chest to create the world's biggest frowny-face. He only used the conventional mouth-area to talk, but you got the impression that he might unzip his torso at any moment, and inside would be a collection of smaller mouths on tentacles that would dive into your orifices and start eating you from inside. It was unsettling.

"COWER, BRIEF MORTAL!" he boomed. People all across Ravnica obeyed, even if only briefly. "I AM GRBBLEBOTCHIM THE UNDERLORD OF RUIN! YOUR SUMMONING HAS FAILED, WIZARD. NOW I SHALL DESTROY EVERYTHING YOU LOVE, ALL YOU CALLED ME UP TO SAVE!"

The wizard nodded. "Yes, yes, excellent."

This gave the demon pause. "I SHALL PILLAGE YOUR VILLAGE," he shouted, "I SHALL OVERTURN YOUR THRONES AND DEMOLISH YOUR CITADELS!"

The wizard rolled his wrist. "Yes, quite, so get on with it!"

"GET ON - I'M SORRY, WHAT?"

"Well," drawled the wizard, "Why did you think I called you up? Did you think I wanted to play canasta? Get out there and smash something." The wizard gestured towards the exit with his fashionable modern metal staff. "I'm not particular what, really."

"ALRIGHT. IF YOU'RE SURE."

"Yes, I am."

The demon walked past the wizard, then hesitated. "THERE'LL BE PROPERTY DAMAGE, YOU KNOW. AND BYSTANDERS AND COLLATERAL AND SO FORTH."

"Yes, that's the whole point. Go on, off you pop."

"WELL. I'LL JUST GO THEN." Grbblebotchim stomped away, with each footfall like the death of a saint. He disappeared around one of the innumerable corners, archways crumbling like dust before him. The wizard relaxed, happy his ritual had succeeded, but the demon wasn't quite finished. He leaned back around the corner and said, "YOU COULD PROBABLY CURRY A LOT OF FAVOR WITH THE LOCAL LORD BY STOPPING ME NOW, YOU KNOW. OR WITH PRINCESSES AND THINGS, THEY LIKE THAT."

The wizard roared in frustration and sent a tiny bolt of lightning at Grbblebotchim. The infernal colossus yelped, and then earthquaked away to the surface.


	4. A Farmgirl in Innistrad, part 1

Just one more, I promise, and then we'll explain how all these things tie together.

I swear.

Doers of dark deeds tend to abhor sunlight. At least, those who don't doubt that they're doing dark deeds do. So, once again, we go into the deeps. The plane is called Innistrad, and since almost everyone on Innistrad, at some point or another, does some pretty awful things, there's a bit of a queue. It is a very long line of peasants, burghers, and villagers, and they all have one thing in common: they want to ask a favor of a Demon (Do you see a theme yet?). The line stretches out the mouth of a rather mundane cave on a grassy knoll. The day has that magical Innistrad cloudiness that renders the whole landscape in deep shadow and searing rays. There are tents on the knoll, where a mix of peasants, burghers, and villagers go about ordinary-looking life. There are women washing clothes in little knots, children dashing about madly, and men smoking, whittling, or selling sausages. These are the supportive families of the desperate diabolists.

Two such men were sitting on a pair of barrels. They were big rustics, with extremely hairy arms and legs and giant, knobbly hands.

"Well, Fitz," said the first, a ginger with a nose like a strawberry, "I'm a bit s'prised to see you here."

The second shrugged, and chewed his dark mustache nervously. "'S the daughter, ain't it, Johan," he said. "'Daddy,' she says to me, 'Daddy, I want to meet a tall, dark, dashing stranger,' she sez."

"Very healthy, for a girl her age," replied Johan. "Perfectly normal."

"Well, yeh," said Fitz, "but seeing how we lived over Stormkirk way, well…"

"I thought you lived in Thraben. Hyperbole Street, wasn't it?"

"Had to move two years ago. Expensive place, Thraben, as I'm sure you know."

"Yeh."

"So now we live near them Vampires what live in that big manor on the coast, Wossname House."

Johan felt his soul darken. " _Oh_ ," he said. He patted Fitz on the shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

Fitz shrugged the gesture off. "Nothing's 'appened, yet. Yet."

Johan nodded. "Not yet, good. 'S no life for a young lady, being undead, however much they may think they want it."

"That is the problem, isn't it? They think they want it. So last month we found -" Fitz's voice cracked. "We found a _poster_ of that aristocrat thingamabob, Marky person. Soaring, I think."

"Oh dear."

"I was powerfully upset."

"I'm sure."

Fitz fished in a pocket for his pipe, but didn't light it. "I just didn't know what to do. But the wife says to me, she says: 'Fitz,' she says, 'We should show her what those creatures really are. In controlled circumstances, like. There's an Open House in four weeks.' So we're here to let her make a tiny bargain, just so she can know what it's all about, but no so big she can't repent when she's got a little wiser." Fitz lit a match, but just stared at it. "They should be going in about now, in fact."

The farmer's wife couldn't find an end to things that needed primping, twisting, or adjusting. Her hands and mouth ran on autopilot, "Now honey, remember not to eat anything. Or take anything that's offered. Or touch anything. Or read any books. And make sure you're allowed to _read_ a contract before you agree to it. And-"

" _Mom,_ " said her daughter, "It's just a look, okay? Everyone in my class has been down here. Why, Samu-"

"Samuntha is a trollop," said the farmer's wife, "and don't let me catch you comparing yourself to her." She looked the little girl - or, unfortunately, the young woman - in her big soulful hazel eyes. "Oh my sweet Nayala," she whispered. "You can leave whenever you want. Whenever."

"Yes, mother," said Nayala impatiently. "I'm going to be fine." Then she pulled away and left her mother standing outside the dark cave.

Just inside were a pair of short, squat men in black robes and hoods, and some velvety bannister-cables. "Welcome, Nayala Fritzsdaughter," said one.

"How did you know my name?" asked Nayala. Her eyes lit up. "Do you have mystic knowledge that mere mortals should not wot of?"

"Hell yeah," said the second. The first punched his arm.

"Your mother filled out a registration card," said the first. "'S why you were in the short line. Here is your welcome packet -" he handed Nayala an envelope with the words ' _So What's In It For YOU?_ ' written in red on it "- you'll be wanting cavern 802. Orientation. There's a map in your packet, but you can find it if you go straight down this tunnel, down the spirally bit until you see the sign that says floor eight, and 802 will be on your right."

Nayala looked at the envelope. "What do you mean, Orientation?"

The second man snorted. "It's a basic lecture, like, for how the whole process works and what you should expect at different Commitment Grades."

Nayala felt shock and horror rising within her. "Like, do you mean… a _class_?"

It was, unfortunately, very like a class.

Cave 802 was a modern lecture hall, adorned with musty skeletons in some of the seats. Prospective diabolists filed in with varying amounts of enthusiasm, with some giving the bones a wide berth and others sitting beside them and chatting animatedly, assuming that they were advanced students or something. The tidal motion of bodies deposited Nayala beside just such a person. She was explaining to the adjacent corpse exactly how eager she was to meet some of the demons she'd heard so much about.

"Kothophed, for example! I heard a rumor that he's come all the way from… um, a long way away! Do you know anything about that? I mean, it's fine if you can't tell. Secrets are secrets, right?" And then, Gods save her soul, she managed to giggle maniacally. Imagine.

Nayala tried to get comfortable silently, but failed, so the girl swiveled, and introduced herself. "Oh, I didn't see you there. I'm Gehenna, pleased to meet you, aren't you excited? I'm so excited, I've never _been_ so excited! Were you waiting long?"

"Um, we arrived last week."

" _Last week?!_ " Gehenna's surprise seemed disproportionate, but then so did everything else about her. "I was waiting for years! Felt like years, anyway, but it was actually three months, but you were just here a week?" Gehenna narrowed her eyes and smiled. "They must like you."

The two girls took stock of each other, and they couldn't have been more different. Nayala was a peasant, with wholesome features and freckles. Her mother and father, who were both dark-haired, were present in her tough, firm build and stubborn personality, but not her hair. It was honey-blonde and showed no signs of darkening. If anything, it had gotten lighter over the years. Meanwhile, Gehenna looked like a farm girl who had starved herself just to the point of death, eaten the local witch's entire potion-making supply closet in an afternoon, dyed every hair black, and ordered a 'dark and edgy' wardrobe by gluing a Hot Topic catalog to her wall and throwing darts at it.

"I think we're going to be friends!" said Gehenna brightly.

Nayala considered this, staring at Gehenna's 'friend' in the other seat. It moldered before her very eyes.

* * *

 _A/N: Whoops, I think I accidentally created a protagonist. Oh well. Course laid, may as well fly it. See where it goes.  
_


	5. Oathsworn Band of Merry Diabolists

Dominara

The wizard in his dark tower scribbled furiously. " _Please find enclosed two million..._ two million what? What do they find two million of?" He was becoming somewhat distraught. "Two million! Two million?"

"Don't you have work to do?" said a voice behind him.

The wizened magus nearly fell out of his chair. He flailed, nearly putting his own eye out with his ludicrous quill pen.

The newcomer (whom you might recognize as the demon-summoner from Ravnica) held his arms up to protect himself. "Desist, you old crank! It's only me, Max!"

"Only me?" said the elder. "Only ye! And who is that, pray? Tell, or pay! Oh. It's _you_ , Wizard Maximillian. Why didn't you say so?"

Wizard Max rolled his eyes.

"I'm still Wizard Ragnusson," the decrepit poet continued, "at least I was, last I checked. And what have you been doing?"

"Saving the planes from one of the most dangerous threats they have ever faced." Max pulled down his hood and grinned. "I daresay I deserve a medal."

"Where was that, then?" asked Ragnusson. "Zendikar? Oh, surely it was Mirrodin-that-was!"

"Nope."

"There are great monsters on Zendikar, at least according to the radio. Things with tentacles that eat you as soon as look at you."

"I didn't go to Zendikar."

"Good people, the Zendikari, for the most part, although the Kor can always use a little seasoning. By-the-by, do you know where I can get some ghost-pepper-cured leonin leather at this hour?"

Max blinked. "Didn't you want to hear about the threat I saved the multiverse from?"

Ragnusson fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Of course, of course!" Then his eyes wandered to the masonry in the archway of his room. "That's mold, there. Not spied it before, didn't think any flora would grow hereabouts." He stood, waddled over to the arch, and inspected it. "Know much about molds, boy?"

Max threw up his hands. "No, Wizard Ragnusson. I know precious little about mold."

"Capital! Neither do I."

"Oh for Serra's sake!"

Ravnica

Niv-Mizzet rarely bothered to write things down. His reasoning was infallible, his memory perfect, and the thoughts he thunked were typically so _profound_ that they didn't have much meaning to anyone else anyway. He (for those who don't know) was a dragon, with scales in various vermillion hues and an impressive bony crest behind his face.

The leader of the Izzet Guild of Artificers, Engineers and Other Scientific Minds spent much of his free time attempting to discover where a man went. The man in question had been a minor annoyance, someone to be punished and forgotten. But the man had escaped his clutches. Not only that, he had disappeared so thoroughly and so _suddenly_ that most would have assumed that he'd died. Niv-Mizzet kept in touch with most of his late colleagues, and none of them knew where the man went, either. It was as though he'd just... fallen off the face of the earth...

Another thing that puzzled him was an arcane formula. He expressed magical patterns as mathematical equations, modeling how energy moves from leylines into the physical world. One of these was a model for calculating the power available in different places in Ravnica. If you knew all the leyline nodes on the plane – as Niv-Mizzet did – you could solve the equation down to 1 = 1. It meant that all the energy there was, was all there was.

He was beginning to suspect that that wasn't correct.

Not too long ago a mad researcher began claiming that he'd solved the equation, and that 1 = 2^7708675309. Niv ate him for suggesting that his algebra was wrong.

He wasn't satisfied. The goblin had been old and a bit stale, and – now that he looked over the creature's work – he actually could have been right. So Niv scratched the numbers into a stone with a long talon. What would it mean if the old boggart had been correct?

The ground under his tower rumbled. Iron valves exploded everywhere. Klaxons began to sound.

"I'M NOT LIKE THIS ALL THE TIME, YOU KNOW!" A monstrous black _thing_ hauled itself through Niv-Mizzet's study room floor and punched him. "THE REAVING OF WORLDS IS JUST A HOBBBY, REALLY!"

Dominara

"So you did what, exactly?"

Maximillian sighed. "I stopped Niv-Mizzet from working out the existence of the Multiverse. You know? The Really Big Obvious Secret? If he learns how to travel the planes, it is only a matter of time before the Izzet become another Infinite Consortium."

"Izzet?" asked Ragnusson.

"Yes," said Max firmly, "it is."

"Hm." The other wizard was not terribly impressed. "Well, I think that's enough background silliness. Time for something to _happen_."

"What are you talking about?"

"My book, of course." Ragnusson licked the tip of his quill pen and then jabbed Max with it.

"Yowch!"

"Sissy. Nothing great was accomplished without sacrifice!" Ragnusson began to scribble industriously. "Besides, my arm was running a bit dry."

There was an electric _snap_ and a dry wind. The Wizard McCracken stepped from between a handful of atoms. His black cloak billowed. There was a lingering scent of smoke. Maximillian snorted.

"Hail, brothers," greeted McCracken.

"Hail, yes!" said Ragnusson, waving his pen around. "Just where in the Hail have you been?"

"Bonding a new thrall to myself." McCracken grinned. "He was foolish enough to let me discover his true name. Alara seems to be calming down," he added. "Grixis is largely business as usual again."

Maximillian snorted again. "Cracky, Grixis never stopped being business as usual."

McCracken nodded. "Fair enough. So!" He leaned his staff against the wall and clapped. "What news, while I was away?"

"Let's see," said Ragnusson, leaning back. "Max saved the Multiverse from Nicol Mizzet, or whoever it is lives in the giant steam contraption over Ravnica way. The Phyrexians issued a press release claiming that they _compleat_ 'd a chief resistance leader, and..." He turned back to his desk and shuffled through some papers, "Jace Beleren killed the Eldrazi."

Silence.

Ragnusson shrugged, then continued. "The Keurig brand was acquired by a holding company based in -"

"Wait just a minute, Ragtime," snapped Max. "What's this about that sniveling, stuck-up, JV-league planestoddler killing the unliving incarnations of the Blind Eternities?"

Ragnusson smiled. "Ah, he didn't do it by himself, of course. He and a handful of his playmates formed an Oathsworn Band of Merry Strolling Gatehouses, I think they called it." He wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, to be young and idealistic again."

"They can't do that," said Cracky, " _we're_ doing that."

"By murdering people and summoning demons," added Max.

"Well," admitted Cracky, "we do it in our own particular idiom, I guess. What are they doing now?"

Ragtime flipped through his notes. "Innistrad," he pronounced. "Evidently something is wrong there. Your neck of the woods, McCracken."

Max stretched. "What do you say, Cracky? Want to check Beleren's homework for him?"

Innistrad – a village in Kessig

A young woman crouched in her hut. It was night, and the moon was full. The moon was a holy symbol, a great silver sign of Avacyn's watch. These days it also meant you were liable to be eaten by a werewolf. She stared through the small barred window at the dark sky. A young boy of five-and-a-half was drawing on the floor. They had nothing worth taking, but they could hear the heavy footfalls on the street, practically smell the musk of the wolf-men...

Outside a figure drifted into view. A winged woman, tiny in the distance, black against the moon. Immediately there were howls of rage and terror. All around the house werewolves scattered in fear of the Angel. The young woman grabbed to boy and held him close.

"Look!" she said, pointing. "There she is! Avacyn the Archangel! I told you she'd protect us!"

The boy smiled. "Yeah." Then he frowned. "Mommy?"

"Yes, my sweet?"

"I can hear her." He stared at his pencil. "She says I'm a sinner."

The woman turned, a little shocked. "Well, you're a venial one at least. What do-"

"She says sinners deserve to be punished." And so he stabbed himself in the eye with his pencil.

Dominaria

"Nah," said Cracky. "That place can handle itself."

"Well, if they want the job, they can have it," said Max. "Best time, too. Let's see. Nicol Bolas is dead as a doornail-"

"-Not that that would stop a planeswalker of his caliber," Ragtime interjected -

"-The Phyrexians are busy chasing their own tails, and the Eldrazi are, um. Is dead the right word?"

"Unmade?" suggested Cracky.

"That would imply that someone made them. Anyway, they aren't a thing anymore." Max smacked his lips. "You know what we could do with? A _vacation_."

"Murdering and summoning demons for the good of the Multiverse isn't good enough for you," said Cracky. "You want to murder and conjure on your own time, too."

"Well, yeah."

"Where shall we go?" Ragtime dropped the papers he was holding and unrolled a vellum scroll. "Myrtle Beach? Eh, too tourist-y. Tar Valon – but no, I'm still wanted there for jaywalking, I think."

"Was that the only thing you did?" asked Max.

"I might have deflowered most of the Red Ajah, too. Or was it the Black? Can't keep them straight. Anyway it's off the table. Say," he looked up, "Arendele is lovely this time of year."

"Absolutely not," said Cracky. "That's deeper in the Keyblade Territory than Magic Castle itself. Hell, I don't think _they've_ been there yet."

"Which technically means it isn't their plane," Ragnusson pointed out. "Good mountains, there. We can unwind, fish in the highland streams, watch the mass extinctions."

"What mass extinctions?" asked Cracky and Max.

"Mass extinctions? I said _mast distinctions_ , where trade ships run up flags so the captains can find where they've parked."

"Right," said Max. "Anyway, we can hike up there for a three or four day weekend. Relax, claim territory from our largest peacetime rivals, bake in a sauna, drink. It'll be great."

McCracken struggled. "Did... did you say sauna?"

"I said sauna."

The wizard sighed. "I'll get my other robe."

Arendele

The snow was about a foot thick.

The wizards had changed into vacationing clothes: thin robes, brightly colored and floral printed, worn open, and peaked straw hats. Max's lips were turning blue inside of a few seconds. "Lovely this time of year?!" he roared. "I'll suck the marrow from you bones, old man!"

"If you're going to get that upset," said Cracky, "make with the warm fire. I'll help."


End file.
